Red Writers

Chapter 1

I am not one of those authors who has no idea where or when their story begins. I know it all started on a certain Thursday in the dark and cold month of January.

A few weeks ago, I was celebrating the New Year 2007 with my orchestral colleagues. I had now resumed my piano concerts after a brief vacation. So when I got home, opened my computer, I saw that an email had been sent to me from Canada. The only person who knew me living in this country was my college friend, Emily Deslières. We had known each other at Sorbonne University, which we both went to. She had successfully completed her surgical studies. She now works at the 32-year-old at the Montreal Heart Hospital. As for me, I am the pianist of the Paris Symphony Orchestra. This message invited me to spend two weeks in the province of Quebec. More precisely in his chalet near the Laurentians. I gladly accepted the invitation, plus I had just planned a concert in Montreal.

That evening, I went to bed delighted. A few days later, I stepped out into the street, hailed a cab, and then headed for the airport. Strong winds delayed my flight. The plane finally arrived and I left for Canada. My trip was strewn with several turbulences, but I still managed to get some sleep. So the 8-hour flight did not seem so long to me. When I got to my destination, I was amazed at the size of the airport. The one in Paris was so much bigger! Whatever that makes sense, because Montreal is less touristy and less populated than Paris. With that, I walked out of the airport, hailed a cab again, then left for my hotel downtown.

The next day, I gave my concert at the Place des Arts and it went very well. I was surprised by the public reaction to my performance. I admit that I had some prejudices about the people of Montreal. I thought they were more modern and less able to appreciate classical music. Back to my hotel room, I put down my sheet music, changed, and was ready for dinner. After some delicious pork chops, I returned to my room to find, to my surprise, that the door to it was locked. I went down to the front desk without dramatizing the situation. I thought to myself that some children had probably played with the door and damaged it or something close. -Good evening madam, I say politely to the lady at the reception.

- Good evening, you wish? she replied.

-I'm afraid that some children have played with my bedroom door and it has broken it somewhat, it is now locked.

-Don't worry sir, we'll send someone ASAP to fix it. What number is it?

- Le 67. Thank you, madam, have a good evening.

-No good evening to you too!

A strange event occurred following this discussion with the hostess. I walked back to my room and found the door wide open. Suspecting theft, I stormed into it and started rummaging around. Nothing was missing except 80 dollars and my bus ticket for the next day, but that certainly had nothing to do with the theft I had suffered. I had left it on my bedside table and had probably misplaced it afterwards. the loss of these two things combined did not please me because I would have to buy a bus ticket unless I found the lost one, and it was still expensive, in addition to the 80 dollars I was losing a lot of money.

I tried to find these objects but had to give up after thirty minutes of research because it was getting late. I was going to bed, pissed off that I couldn't figure out how someone had gotten into my room.